


studies to superheroics

by doofusface



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Identity Reveal, Injury, Light Angst, Mutual Pining, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, Studying, Trust, Tutoring, Whump, Worry, calling betty/ned wiretapping from now on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 10:10:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16116245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doofusface/pseuds/doofusface
Summary: “How many books do you think I can read in a day?”“One and three-quarters,” MJ blanks, stacking a tenth book onto the pile in his hands. “But we can extend the reservations for these.”“Do I needallof them?”“If we’re doing remedials, we’re doin’ ‘em my way.”Peter shifts weight on his feet, the pile shaking with him. “Which is…?”“You’re not specializing,” she says, motioning for him to follow her to the counter.“I’m—what?”--In which Peter has to make up for missing practice, with a sprinkling of all the nerds globetrotting.





	studies to superheroics

**Author's Note:**

> this was at like 1k when I was spitballing and I'm a big dummy at gauging how long what I write is gonna be
> 
> also I grew up interchanging remedials with tutoring so keep that? in mind? I guess?
> 
> starts spring of junior year, anD WE’RE GONNA IGNORE INFINITY WAR BECAUSE WE CAN

MJ tilts her head back slightly, closed eyes telling a tale of sleepless nights and flaring nose tacking on the extra spice of absolutely  _hating_  her job.

 _Exhale._ “Peter, if you want to quit, just  _say so_ —”

“No!  _No_ ,” Peter says, closing his eyes briefly. His chair squeaks a little, jostled by his mini-outburst. “Just. I want to stay. On the team.”

MJ sighs from across him, massaging her temples. “Dude, you’re barely here. And I know you made a good effort the last year and a half, but, like—”  _sigh_ , again, as she slumps her shoulders, “—Listen. Harrington’s on me to fix your skipping habit. I can’t just let you stay on the team ‘cause you’re my friend. That’s nepotism, and I’m against that.”

“I know you are,” Peter says, hands up in both defense and consolation. “I know, MJ, I really do—”

“Yeah, and you still pull this crap and make my job hell.”

“Okay, fair,” he says, leaning forward on the table, eyes pleading. “But there has to be something I could do!”

MJ scoffs. “Like what? There’s no remedial class for Deca—”

“Remedials!” Peter says, hopping to his feet. “MJ, you’re a genius!”

“Flattery will get you far, but not in this establishment,” MJ blanks. She points at him then at his seat. “Sit.”

(He sits.)

“But, seriously,” Peter grins, hands moving wildly over the table as he articulates, “I could take remedials. For Decathlon. Here. Or wherever!”

“With  _who_?”

“With you!” he says, too excited to notice they’ve both inched their way closer together.

Well.

For half a second.

 _Cough_. “How—how are  _we_  supposed to meet up when you already skip class and practice?” MJ asks, moving back into her seat. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Weekends?” Peter asks in his little hopeful, inspirationally earnest way. He’s leaning on the table again, but this time he’s more laying on it, hands clasped and raised and in MJ’s face in a very showy form of  _Pleaaaase?_

Sometimes, she hates the little bump in speed her heart does.

Y’know, coincidentally, whenever Peter does something like this.

Something,  _er_ , cute.

“Fine,” MJ says, unreadable as she stands. “But if you can’t keep up at Regionals, I’m kicking you.”

Sometimes, he doesn’t realize he’s gone to mush, fawning openly at her like this when they’re alone.

And sometimes?

He just doesn’t care.

“I’ll take a billion kicks from you,” Peter grins lopsidedly.

“Kicking you  _out_ , Pete.”

“Still.”

“Mmk, weirdo,” MJ says, brows raised and squinting. She pulls up her bag, pushing her chair back in place. “Text ahead. Some of us actually stick to planned schedules.”

Peter snorts. “Some, yeah—not  _you_.”

“ _Hey_ ,” she points, shrugging on her backpack strap with her other hand, “just ‘cause I’m  _usually_  free on weekends doesn’t mean I’m  _always_  free on weekends.”

“Oh,  _okay_ ,” he replies, stifling laughter. “And  _I_  don’t have the first fifty decimals of Pi memorized.”

She huffs, settling for a simple middle finger instead of her usual  _Later, nerd._

Peter snickers in his seat, but it softens when she’s a little farther away.

Softens, until it’s just a gaze and a small, barely concealed smile.

* * *

Peter texts her at lunchtime on Saturday, two hours before he plans to hit the library.

It says:  _So the weather’s nice today_

She replies:  _is that what itll take to get you to study? because it’s raining next week_

He says:  _Nah but it’s a nice bonus_

There’s a pause before her next reply, and Peter almost assumes that the conversation’s passed.

Almost, until his phone buzzes again:

_/I’m/ the nice bonus, nerdissimo. get it right_

* * *

(It takes thirty-seven minutes before he recovers from his little fluttery heart attack and remembers to tell her he’s free to study that day.)

* * *

They agree to meet at the library, and Peter 100%  _does not_  attempt to look a little nicer—does _not_  comb his hair about thirty times, does _not_  video call Ned for a pep talk, does _not_  triple-check that he has the time right and that MJ was, actually, coming.

And he definitely, truthfully,  _mortifyingly_ , does _not_  ignore May and her questions as to why he’s wearing his “nice science shirt” and “clean jeans” and “new coat” to pick up books.

Anyway.

Fast-forward.

 _Grunt_. “How many books do you think I can read in a day?”

“One and three-quarters,” MJ blanks, stacking a tenth book onto the pile in his hands. “But we can extend the reservations for these.”

“Do I need  _all_ of them?”

“If we’re doing remedials, we’re doin’ ‘em my way.”

Peter shifts weight on his feet, the pile shaking with him. “Which is…?”

“You’re not specializing,” she says, motioning for him to follow her to the counter.

“I’m— _what_?” he says, trying hard to keep his voice low in the empty library. “You want me to learn  _all_  of this? Like,  _perfectly_?”

“Stuy’s new kids have quadruple-threats,” MJ explains, quietly greeting the librarian at the counter. “You don’t need to master all of them, but we need to get you past  _just_  the sciences.”

She passes off each of the books, and motions for Peter to give his library card.

“I bet you’re hoping I forget to renew,” he squints, handing the librarian his card.

 _Beep_.

“Public libraries always appreciate the donation.”

“Terrible, MJ,” Peter says, retrieving his card and books. He smiles, nodding a goodbye to the librarian.

MJ waves, and they head off.

* * *

(She doesn’t take messing with him far enough to make him open the swing door by himself, and if she gives his a small smile while doing it, well, that’s just a polite thing to do, isn’t it?)

* * *

MJ follows him home, and May gives Peter a subtle acknowledgement and extra snacks for  _brain food, kids—you’re gonna need it._

“Why does she keep giving you a  _look_?” MJ asks when May’s retreated back to her room, door open two inches wide.

“Because she’s my guardian?”

“Smartass.”

Peter shrugs, a little smile on his lips. “Sure am.”

“Fine,” MJ pouts, “ _don’t_  tell me.” She picks the book on musical history off the top of Peter’s arms, tossing it onto his bed. “Begin.”

Peter scrunches up his face, placing the other books on his table. “That’s it? Just letting me drown?”

“Easier to drown when you’re on your own.”

“ _MJ_.”

She smirks playfully. “I’ll let you read first,” she says, claiming his computer chair and rummaging through her bag. “I’ve got flashcards to cover most of the book, so tell me where you end up in an hour.”

“And what’re  _you_ gonna do?” he asks, flopping beside the book. It’s as thick as the length of his thumb, and he’s regretting everything a little bit.

Out comes a notebook, a sketchbook, and four loose, multi-colored pens. “Homework.”

* * *

He catches her drawing him at  _least_  three times in twenty minutes.

Except it’s not  _him_.

It’s  _The Other Him_.

So he catches her, thrice and a few more, but he doesn’t say anything.

Not. A. Single. Thing.

Not about the red, or the blue, or the black and white. Nothing about the heroic scale of whatever she’s designed: Spider-Man on top of a building, latching onto the corner edge like a breathing gargoyle, his back to the viewer, his front overlooking Queens.

Overlooking Midtown.

* * *

(The high school, not the designation of Manhattan’s mid-ranged streets.)

* * *

“I’m surprised you didn’t know these,” MJ says after she’s quizzed him through the first round.  _Flip_ , as she rearranges the cards. “Aren’t you in band?”

“It’s not like we’re LaGuardia,” Peter huffs, fully aware he’d just flunked abysmally. He reopens the book and pulls out his phone.

MJ’s stoic, watching him slide and tap and—

“Mozart?” she asks, quirking a brow.

“It could be a placebo, but it works for me,” he says, a hint of shame in the way he curls into himself a little bit.

 _Cough_ , as MJ moves off the chair and makes camp on the floor beside his bunk.

“What—”

“Helps me, too.”

Peter blinks, his heightened senses taking over. He notices, faintly, with no outside distractions, the undeniable scent of—

“Perfume?” he asks, moving a little closer to her. “Are you wearing perfume, MJ?”

“…I do on occasion.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“None of your business.”

“…So there  _is_  an occasion?”

“Peter,  _please_  shut up and study,” MJ says, looking straight at the wall opposite her, notebook and actual homework in her lap.

He shuffles back, sits up and tucks himself into the corner, far away from Very Distracting Things™️, such as his  _best bud_ Michelle “MJ” Jones and her  _on occasion_ spritz of lavender perfume.

Sits, and studies, and attempts, again, an hour later, to not flunk her lightning round.

* * *

(It takes about three hours before he gets a passing mark, and by then May’s asking MJ to stay for dinner, which of course means she’s  _staying for dinner_ , because it’s  _May_ and it’s impossible—and probably illegal?—to refuse her.)

* * *

(It may have taken no less than four goodbye hugs to leave the Parker apartment because Peter kept finding some excuse to let her linger, kept finding a question to ask or story to tell.

Something and  _anything_ to memorize the disappearing scent of her perfume, and MJ, for her part, was  _completely_  aware, and  _extremely_  here for it.)

* * *

Peter skips practice sometimes still, but he’s a little better after Ned convinces him that it would, overall, be better to stick with high school.

“At least, like, until we get a green light for Europe,” Ned explains, hands moving in a very convincing manner. “It's easier if we win Regionals. Plus, May’s not gonna let you go if your grades slip, and she’s gonna  _kill_  you if she finds out you started skipping practice again.”

“You’re right,” Peter says, smoothing out his hair. “I just—I kinda feel like I’m capping? Like I wanna help more, you know?”

“Dude, last time you did that without professional help, you almost died,” Ned whispers quickly, looking around to confirm their privacy in the corridor. “Just sayin’.”

“I get it, yeah. You’re right, you’re right. Gotta be patient.”

“Definitely.” Pause. “…MJ likes a guy who can wait.”

 _Groan_. “Are we really? Really gonna just? Talk about this? Again?”

“I’m just sayin’,” Ned says, hands up in defense as he back-walks to the practice room doors. “She’s been looking at your face a lot. Like a  _lot_ -a lot.”

“That’s usually what happens when people are talking to each other.”

“Spidey-senses,” Ned hints with a nod, opening the door. “Consider it.” He turns to the team, arms up in victory. “Ned Leeds delivering our super secret weapon—you can bow.”

(Cindy and Abe do.)

“I don’t know what you did to blackmail him, but good job,” MJ says from the podium, glancing up once before continuing to adjust her notes. “Harrington’s got a teacher’s meeting and Charles said he had to hit the library before practice, so we’ll start in five.”

“Aye-aye, Cap’n,” Ned says, swagger in his step as he makes his way to his desk. He tips an imaginary hat at MJ.

She rolls her eyes, but huffs a laugh.

And it clicks something.

Makes the bits of what Peter knew and knows and plans to know stick together, sculpting into an idea.

A form.

A form, specifically, of love.

And he thinks, perhaps, that he is entirely, unequivocally, life-alteringly  _screwed_.

Because he thought it was just a crush.

And he is very,  _very_  wrong.

* * *

“ _So you’re dating now?_ ”

Liz’s voice is usually welcome, but the college freshman is currently being nosy and  _not_  about Decathlon, so MJ debates slamming closed her laptop or—and it only lasts a second—tossing it out of her fifth-storey apartment window.

“That’s not the question I sent,” MJ says instead, calm and collected.

Sort of.

Outwardly.

Enough to survive a video call, at any rate.

“ _I think it’s cute_ ,” Liz continues, completely ignoring the listed question of  _Who is the Pentangle Knight?_ , which MJ knows is the twelfth on the list, because she wrote it  _and_ memorized it. “ _Betty’s thinking of joining the team, too, so you guys should totally double date._ ”

“I usually care about your well-being, but on days like this, you make it very hard.”

“ _I’m serious! And Cindy’s family runs that limo service, so you could totally hit prom together_ and  _get a discount._ ”

“I’m hanging up.”

“ _Aw, MJ, don’t be—_ ”

“Call when you’re lucid,” MJ says, clicking the red circle.

* * *

Betty does not join the team, on account of conflict of interest in her journalism, but she  _does_ join them at the table sometimes during lunch. She sits by Ned, and MJ waggles her brows at him whenever Betty leaves to say hi to someone or return her tray.

Peter gives Ned this  _knowing_  look and a smirk so wide it makes him look cat-like, all thin lips and dumb teasing.

Ned takes it and owns it, because he’s  _Ned_ —he wears everything on his sleeve, and shirt, and hat, and it’s not something he’s ashamed of.

* * *

It is entirely possible that they both bond over messing (eh, trying to) with Ned during their weekend study sessions.

* * *

It is also entirely possible that they both bond, in general, with lessening distances (both physical and emotional) and pre-planned dinners with May and a few mugs of MJ’s taking out a lease on the Parker cupboard.

* * *

May, more than once, has to drape a blanket over MJ while the girl steals Z’s in the living room, because nap times are essential to surviving nerd high school, and Peter is  _determined_  to  _finish_  the tome on the evolution of art  _before_  getting quizzed.

* * *

“Ned’s here,” Peter says gently, poking her awake one Sunday afternoon, six weeks to Regionals.

MJ’s groggy and yawning and still has half her face under the covers and Peter thinks, not for the first time, that he wouldn’t mind the view of messy curls and bleary eyes for the rest of his life.

“Time?” MJ asks, voice breathy and low.

“Almost six.”

(It is a miracle that he doesn’t do something stupid while he answers.

Doesn’t lean over.

Doesn’t tell her things.

Important things.

Things about swinging across town and getting punched in the face by metal-clad Bad Guys.)

“Mmk,” she half-hums, sitting up.

“I made you tea,” he says softly, crouching by the edge of the couch. He lifts up the mug, little wisps rising still. “Should be able to drink it.”

(He just really wants to tell her about the Bad Guys.)

“What, did you time it?” she laughs, wiping at her eyes and yawning again.

“Yeah.”

 _Blink_ , as MJ stares down at him with sleepy surprise, hands slumped down into the blanket and couch.

Peter shrugs, placing the mug in her hands.

Doing a little extra and wrapping her fingers around it.

…Not realizing he did a little extra until her eyes are wider and her brow is raised and she is, decidedly, awake.

“ _Um_ ,” he says, eyes widening because he’s  _a big dumb dummy with dumb dummy ideas and bad brain to body connections_.

MJ gulps, staring down at the mug and not her hands.

Peter gulps, too.

Silence.

 _Agonizing_  silence.

“So Ned?” she says midway through clearing her throat. Up the mug goes, up and to her lips.

“Bathroom,” he squeaks, scrambling backwards and standing and almost knocking over the coffee table.

(He 100% cannot tell her about the Bad Guys.)

MJ doesn’t answer with words; just hums with a mouth full of tea, something garbled like she’s trying to drown herself in the hot-ish water, trying to recollect why one-on-one remedials with Peter was a good idea, trying to give herself a pep talk about platonic intimacy and the benefits thereof.

Peter, meanwhile, paces back and forth by the bathroom and once Ned steps out with his great ol’ smile and bouncy ol’ personality, he—gently!—pulls his best friend out of the bathroom and trades place with him, locking the door with blinding speed.

(He is bad at this and the Bad Guys will find her and he doesn’t want that and he  _cannot tell her about the Bad Guys and the swinging across town thing, EVER_.)

“You coulda knocked,” Ned whines, shaking his head and wringing his wrist. He steps into the living room, spots MJ, tilts his head, and  _thinks_.

For maybe like, five seconds.

Turns, squints at the bathroom door.

Turns again, steps over to the couch, and eyes MJ with fond amusement.

He points at the mug. “You know that’s empty, right?”

She looks like a pufferfish, slowly deflating. She nods, breathing out through her nose.

“So why’re you still holding it up?”

“Hoping more comes out so I can drown,” MJ says, tea completely downed.

“Peter’s probably gonna flush himself down the toilet.”

“I’ll go next.”

“More Thai for me,” Ned says, hands clasped behind his head as he leans into the couch.

MJ squints at him. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Yup.”

“Just for that, you’re sitting closest to the reporters’ bench at the next meet.”

Ned smirks, eyes closed. “Joke’s on you. That’s usually where Peter sits, so now he’s  _your_  seatmate.”

* * *

(Serves her right for trying to abuse her power.)  

* * *

(If Peter keeps sensing her glancing over at dinner, he doesn’t catch it.)

* * *

“I think you should just ask her out,” Ned says after dinner, not on the same Sunday.

A different day.

A Saturday, three weeks to Regionals.

Not two minutes after MJ steps out, because here in the Parker household, we live on the edgiest of edges.

“Seconded,” May says, twirling the last of her pasta onto her fork. The metal slides a bit, makes that annoying  _eeek_  noise that Peter swears got worse by five hundred decibels since the bite.

(It’s all a very scientific hypothesis and he argues this because he wrote it down, and Adam Savage always said that  _that_  was the difference between science and fun times.)

“Really?” Peter asks, not in the  _Oh, this again?_  way he’s been delivering it for the last, like, semester, but in an honest spark of  _That’s a thing I can do?_ accompanied by  _Like, that’s an option?_

“Yeah, dude,” Ned says, picking up his paper plate and placing it in the garbage. “I mean, you  _could_  wait it out and let  _her_  ask, but it’s gonna happen anyway, so.”

“May?” Peter shifts and asks, because that’s the smartest thing he can do.

May chews and swallows, nodding with contentment at their now-finished takeout. “She has three mugs here, sweetie. She’s been coming over for over a year and she only brought those after you started your study sessions.” Pause, as she sips water, clearing her throat. “I’d say that’s marking territory.”

“She’s been coming to my house longer and she’s  _never_  left a mug,” Ned adds pointedly.

With a point.

Using his pointer.

(A three-pointer, if you will.)

“Okay,” Peter says, emotion draining from his face. “Okay.”

“Breathe, hon.”

A grin creeps up, lopsided and twitchy and awkward and  _excited_. “Yes,  _wow_ , yeah—I’ll ask MJ out. Yeah! I’ll do it—I’ll—I’m gonna— _uh-oh_ ,” he says, dipping in energy. He stumbles a bit, and May’s on his arm and propping him up.

(She’s also laughing a  _ton_ , but it’s really not her fault that her nephew’s the most readable person alive.)

“You okay, sweetie?” May asks gently, hiding giggles behind throat-clearing coughs.

It comes out in a daze and a breath: “ _Ohhh_ , no. I’m gonna ask MJ out.”

“Breathe, c’mon—one, two. One, two. That’s it.”

“What if she says no?” he squeaks, deteriorating. “What if she never talks to me again?”

“She’s not gonna say no, dude!” Ned says with advanced levels of perkiness and gusto. “I see her eyes! She’s  _whipped!_ ”

Again, Peter turns to his aunt.

May nods.

“Okay,” Peter gulps. “Yeah, okay. Next…next time. Saturday. I’ll. Yeah.  _Phew_.”

“Sweetie, don’t pass out.”

“Tryin’ real hard.”

May grins, giving him a hug and ruffling his hair. “ _There’s_  my overachiever. You’ll do great.”

Peter hugs her tightly, kissing her cheek. “Thanks, May. Just…thanks.”

* * *

(“He’s so big now,” May says to an old photo later that night, at the edge of a bed too large for one person.

A smile.

A laugh.

…A siren outside, and Peter tapping on their shared wall to let her know he’s heading out.

Red and blue past her window and into the night, a  _swoosh_  of wind following.

May looks back down, a light click of her tongue echoing in the room.

Ben smiles back up at her.

“Oh, hon. You’d be  _so_ proud.”)

* * *

“I think you’ve earned the Pringles,” MJ says after the third round of Peter making above average marks on her quizzing. She rummages in her bag, tossing the tube of chips at him, and returns to twirling her pencil idly above her sketchbook while Mozart continues in the background.

Peter spins and catches it, pretending to fumble, because she’s giving him a questioning look and staring at his hands.

Something unnerving about the most observant person at school being your best friend.

Something worse than unnerving about her also being the person you’re in love with.

But, like, only ‘cause he’s Spider-Man.

(This lying thing would suck so much less if he weren’t Spider-Man.)

(…Then again, it wouldn’t  _be_  a thing, would it?)

Peter drums on the cardboard, his promise to himself to  _not chicken out_ weighing heavier than a collapsed building. “Uh,” he says, full of confidence, “so.”

MJ stares at him, expressionless. The pencil in her hand keeps  _spinning_ , stopping,  _spinning_ , stopping.

Peter takes a second, prying his eyes off the movement.

She doesn’t blink.

He fidgets. “Do you—I mean, if you want, maybe,  _if you want_ —do you wanna go get, like, dinner?”

She laughs a little, placing the pencil on the table with a soft  _click_. “That’s not very platonic.”

“It’s, uh—it’s not supposed to be.”  _Gulp_ , as he turns the Pringles tube over this way and that. “Platonic, I mean. It’s not supposed to be platonic.”

“Like…” MJ says, brows knitting, “…like a date? A  _date_ -date?”

“Date-squared, yeah,” Peter says, out of breath. “But like, not—not a double-date, but definitely.”  _Cough_. “Definitely a date.”

“I—”

 _Would love to_ , she thinks, gripping the pencil again.

“—think we should finish the flashcards,” she says, flipping her sketchbook closed and reshuffling said cards.

Peter deflates instantly, but he tries to look and sound chipper anyway.

It hurts like a weight on her chest.

“Oh. Yeah, no, yeah, def, def,” he says from behind her, and  _man_ , she just wished he’d said something.

Just  _told her_.

You know,  _trust_?

That thing friends do?

_Tch._

MJ almost laughs when she flips the cards over.

She turns and her eyes lock with his. “What is the English equivalent of the compound word of the Latin words for  _apart_  and  _to sift_?”

Peter breaks the stare.

It’s heavy when he answers.

“‘Secret’.”

* * *

(It’s an extra gut-punch when Peter has to make an excuse before dinner, when they’re— _awkwardly_ , everything is awkward now—watching TV with May, because  _Breaking News!_  pops up on the screen and there’s a guy with an alien blaster at the Belmont racetrack, and that’s just  _rude, those horses are traumatized enough!_ )

* * *

(It’s an extra- _extra_  gut-punch when MJ has to look away from the screen when Peter gets blasted off the bleachers.

When she makes a retreat back to his room to take her stuff.

When she excuses herself quickly, eyes glancing at her phone and utterly aware that her data is running way too low for her to be live streaming the news as she rushes home.)

* * *

(He’s fine the next day, if she goes by Ned’s Instagram story. No bruises, no nothin’.

No texts, either.)

* * *

“You said  _no_?”

MJ’s sitting with Ned in the cafeteria on Monday, Peter off doing Peter-things, like saving the world or helping a dozen old ladies cross the street.

(Just kidding.

She heard chatter about a fire in Ozone Park.

He’s  _definitely_ there.)

“You knew?” she frowns, a carrot paused from reaching her mouth. Her notes for her next class are under her, distracting thoughts with mathematical equations.

“I psyched him up for it!” Ned hisses, crouching low.

“Hmm.”  _Chomp_. “Shouldn’t have done that.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t like him,” Ned blanks, eyes in that pre-roll state. “‘Cause that’s a total lie.”

 _Chomp._ “I enjoy his company.”

“Okay. And?”

“And I have a lot to lose.”

“Like?”

“The can of worms that lives in my chest.”

“So, feelings.”

 _Shrug_.  _Chomp._

“Okay, but—he  _likes you_. He  _asked you out_. It’s like a safe bet.”

“I can’t…trust. Him. With it.” Pause. “Them.”  _Cough._  “The worms, I mean.”

Ned huffs, laying on the table with pleading eyes and a whiny voice. “But  _why_?”

MJ swallows the last of the carrot, scratches the skin under her bangs. Looks up, to the side, down.

Chews the inside of her cheek.

Clears her throat.

“Not like he trusts  _me_.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Ned frowns, sitting up and reaching over to hold her arm, “that’s  _not_ true, MJ—”

She starts writing on her notebook, speaking in hushed tones and leaning closer. “I—Ned, look. I know. I know where he goes on Wednesdays. On Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays—every day, every night. And I know he isn’t working a salary gig, so don’t try to insult my intelligence, okay?”

It’s there on the paper when she flips the notebook to him.

It’s there, small and discreet, and Ned flushes.

_I know he’s Spider-Man._

“That’s— _pff_ — _pshhhh_ —that’s a super—that’s  _really_ out there, MJ,” Ned stammers, avoiding all eye contact. He pats the table with his palms, drumming quickly and moving to stand. “You’re really—reallyreallyfunny,  _haha_ , yup, good,  _uh_ ,” he adds, tapping his temple, “good ideas, yup,  _yupyupyup_.”

 _Squint_.

“Okay _bye_ seeyoulater!” Ned squeaks, skedaddling away.

He doesn’t even come back for his bag.

“Hey, Betty?” MJ calls after a few minutes, looking over to the student paper’s table two tables over while discreetly ripping up the page and putting away her notebook.

Betty leans back into the aisle, quirking a brow at her. “Yeah?”

MJ points at the bag. “You’ve got CompSci with Ned next, right?”

“Oh, yeah—wasn’t he just with you?” Betty says, walking over with curiosity in the tilt of her head.

“Probably got the bad end of the meatloaf.”

Betty’s brows crease, and if MJ weren’t about three minutes to prying the truth from him, she would’ve thought it was…nice.

To have someone care for him like that.

If she and Peter want something beyond themselves, it was for Ned to be happy.

It’s Betty’s voice that calls her back.

“Is he okay?”

“Oh, yeah, he’ll be fine,” MJ says, scrunching up half her face. “Bounces back, that one. Steel trap.”

“Oh, okay. Good,” Betty says, swallowing thickly. “I’ll take his bag, and—”  _Frown_.

MJ knows that frown.

She’s seen it and made it countless times by now.

It’s the best friend she keeps in lieu of her actual best friend.

“Where’s Peter?” Betty asks, and MJ’s lips flatten down to a thin line.

Up and over go her bag straps.

Up and over goes MJ herself, stepping away from the table.

Betty watches her with veiled concern, watches as she mixes the contents of Ned’s half-empty tray with hers, tucking the trays one over the other in silence.

Watches, as MJ nods once, curt and small, eyes down at the trays and lips pursing.

Watches and listens, as she says, with an exceptional sort of tiredness:

“I asked myself the same thing.”

* * *

(Ned gets his bag back and he doesn’t let MJ in.

Fair.

He was probably sworn to secrecy.

Noble effort, really.

What he  _does_  do, though, is thank MJ for the wingmanning, because  _her_  class after lunch was next door to his, and she could’ve brought it herself and he’s  _super glad you didn’t, ‘cause Betty sat beside me!_

So it’s a half-win kinda day, and that’s okay.

Y’know.

For now.)

* * *

(What MJ doesn’t know is that Ned doesn’t tell Peter.

Doesn’t warn him, because Ned knows that if he  _does_ , Peter might panic, might overthink, might  _stress_.

And he’s got enough of that already, with the trip and the  _leaving May for_  the trip and  _Regionals_ ,  _oho_ , we can’t forget Regionals, now can we?

You know?

That thing MJ was helping Peter with?

So he wouldn’t butcher the team effort?

Oh, yeah.  _That’s_  still happening.

And the two golden kids of Decathlon aren’t talking more than a few awkward words to each other.

 _So_  great for team morale.)

* * *

They manage to end the year with a bang and bag Regionals, triumphant once again over Stuyvesant, much to the latter's annoyance.

(They’re nice enough kids, but there’s a silent rivalry brewing and ye olde Peglegs were starting a campaign to hunt the Tigers.

Figuratively.

…Probably.)

Ned throws in the winner—something about the physical attributes of a spider’s web, which Peter chickened out of answering because MJ was  _looking_  at him.

Betty watches their match in person, like how she’s done the past year— _for journalism_ , even if that’s a total lie—and gives Ned a lingering hug at the end of it, not outside of view from the rest of the team.

Y’know, the team that likes to tease each other on a good day, and shell out incurable burns on a bad one?

“ _HELLA_!” Charles yells, hands cupped around his mouth.

“LEEDS! LEEDS! LEEDS!” Abe and Sally chant, completely ignoring the trophy being handed their way.

“Ah, young love,” Harrington says, taking a second to give an appreciative nod before taking the trophy from the judge.

MJ snorts, a hand covering her growing smile. What a nice little family she’s got here.

The team from Stuy catches on eventually, calling a silent truce to join in on the whistling and hooting along with Midtown in a Manhattan-Queens chorus of annoying teenagers.

Peter has his phone out, recording since their win was announced. He’s cheering along with them, and it’s  _fine_  and it’s  _chill_  until he swivels a tiny bit, swings his arm out an inch too far.

Catches MJ at the edge of the recording, her eyes flicking to attention as if she’d sensed it.

And Peter stares through the phone, smile dropping.

And hers drops.

And the phone lowers, and they just…stare at each other.

Ned’s getting ambushed by the others and  _they don’t move_ , because moving breaks the  _lighting_  and the  _mood_  and the straight-up magical  _essence_  they’re conjuring right now, in this amphitheater full of people who don’t seem to notice.

Notice that there’s something missing.

There is, isn’t there?

Just a big-small detail.

Right there.

Out of reach.

There’s an official photographer taking pictures and calling for the teams.

Cindy grabs MJ. She’s all smiles when she yells an announcement that their  _captain’s coming through!_

Sally corrals Peter, says something about putting his phone away for the team photo. Something belated, asking if he’s  _still here, Pete? Hellooo?_

Ned has to step in the middle, and since Peter and MJ love him more than they want to avoid each other, so do they.

They sling arms over Ned’s shoulders, clearing throats and straightening backs and avoiding letting Ned feel the tension, because this is  _his time_.

It’s the  _team’s time_.

 _Clicks_ and  _flashes_  flood the room; Betty’s back to the sidelines, writing something on her notepad with one hand and recording the scene on her phone with the other.

Harrington pats each of them on the back, gives them high-fives and fist bumps, tells them they’ve done  _great, and the Europe trip is definitely pushing through_  now that they’ve got a fancy spot for Nationals.

Ned gets a separate picture with his two best friends and it’s tough, for sure, to brush hands and avoid gazes and pretend to be completely okay with their current state of being.

* * *

If they keep their distance from each other, it’s only because there’s no excuse for remedials anymore.

Or.

At least.

That’s what they tell themselves.

And Ned.

And all their other friends.

Who, suckily enough, are  _all overlapping._

* * *

(They are eternally glad that junior prom is not a thing at Midtown and that they don’t have to deal with it after…stuff.)

* * *

“Are you guys gonna like, I dunno, not be weird during the trip, at least?” Ned asks Peter, looking between him and MJ in the hallway. She’s still a ways out, talking to Abe and Charles about something. “‘Cause I’m probably gonna ditch you to hang with Betty. Full disclosure.”

“Gee, thanks, bro,” Peter frowns, shoving his pre-calc book in his bag for the last time. “Always there for me.”

“I really am, Pete, but she’s been sending  _signals_ , you know?”

 _Yeah, Ned—I know. They’re the same signals MJ would send me, and then I asked her out and now she barely even talks to me at practice_ , he thinks.

“Yeah, Ned,” he says.  _Sigh_. “You don’t need to worry about me, promise.”

“Party at my place tonight, suckas!” Flash yells into the packed hallway, arms raised and feeding off the cheers that surround him. “Juniors and seniors  _only_!”

“Wanna go?” Ned tries, pursing his lips.

“Nah,” Peter says, slinging his bag up. “Gotta pack and talk to Mr. Stark.”

Ned nods.

And nods.

And nods.

“You can go, dude,” Peter laughs, patting his shoulder. “May banned me from patrol tonight anyway.”

“Hey.”

 _How_ MJ had snuck up on them, he wasn’t sure.

Spidey-senses are a scam.

MJ shifts weight. Her thumb pads digs into the back of her bag straps as she stretches.

(Awkward.

Awkward, awkward, awkward.)

“Hey,” Peter says, smiling even though he’s pretty sure his heart is on fire.

“Party?” MJ says, looking between them her default  _I don’t care either way_  face.

(She does care and that is the problem.)

“I gotta—” Peter starts, thumb pointing behind and out.

“Oh.”

“Internship stuff.”

“Yeah.”  _Snort._  “What else would it be?”

(Dial it down,  _dial it down_.)

“Uh.”

MJ’s brows raise and lower—a not-nod of acknowledgement.

(Sure, okay. Good enough. Not talking is safer, anyway.)

“ _I’m_  going,” Ned says cheerily, recovering his speech. He nudges MJ. “You wanna come?”

“Uh,” she replies, glancing at Peter. “That’s—that, yeah, that’s fine. Right?”

Peter shrugs. He purses his lips. Offers a half-smile. Shuffles his feet. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Dunno.”

“Mhm.”

“Okay,” MJ coughs, tapping a closed fist on Ned’s shoulder. “I’ll pick you up.”

“Sounds good,” Ned says, in a higher-than-normal pitch.

“Pete,” MJ says, nodding at him.

“MJ,” Peter says, nodding back.

She stops for a second, and Ned wonders if the world’s about to explode.

Waits for it.

…She steps to the side, walks past them and pats Peter’s shoulder as she goes.

“I’ll see you at the airport,” she says softly.

Keeps walking.

Stops, and turns back to point at Ned.

“And—Betty’s coming later. So. Wear something nice.”

“Okay!” Ned beams, forgetting everything.

MJ smiles back, shaking her head, then digs her palms into her bag straps and turns back to the exit.

“Can you breathe?” Peter asks, watching her go.

Ned laughs airily, shaking his head. “Can  _you_?”

* * *

(They don’t last too long at the party, mostly because packing is a thing they haven’t finished.

…And because someone threw up by the food and that about ruined the point of going.)

* * *

Having Peter constantly show up in her line of sight was a real inconvenience  _before_ they were friends, but  _now_?

After he’d asked her out?

And she’d said  _no_?

One could imagine the inner turmoil, especially with the hours-long flight ahead and one Peter Parker squarely set on the seat diagonally across from her own aisle seat.

What a sham. She was banking on him taking one of those emergency exit row seats, and now she’s stuck with his above average profile in an above average vantage point.

 _And_  she’s beside Flash.

Not that he’s the terror he used to be in sophomore year, but he’s still got some of his old self in there, as he so eloquently proves with: “MJ, you’re staring like a psycho.”

“That would make me capable of killing you,” she whispers back, readjusting herself in her seat.

Flash keeps his eyes on his phone, one earbud in. “Your lovers’ spat is hella stupid.”

“It’s not a lovers’ spat.”

“Lovers’ Badly Thought Out Rejection, then.”

(Why does  _everyone know_.)

“I’m going to sleep,” MJ says, reclining her seat and shoving on her eye mask. “Don’t be mean to the flight attendants.”

He’s smart and doesn’t say anything back, just grunts in acknowledgement and shoves the other earbud in.

* * *

(If Peter doesn’t say anything about knowing that MJ was staring at him because he could  _hear_ , it’s because he’s too scared to bring it up only to be shot down.

Again.)

* * *

Betty’s on the trip because she managed to debate herself and the words  _journalistic opportunities_  to Principal Morita.

It has absolutely  _nothing_  to do with Ned Leeds’ existence, she says, when interrogated by Charles and Cindy.

“Don’t bother,” MJ tells her once they’ve picked up their bags, “they’re built like rocks.”

 _Laugh_. “Figured. Got a roomie?”

“Liz made me promise to watch you,” MJ replies, quirking a brow. “Something about sneaking out?”

“That’s confidential,” Betty says, lips a thin line save for the slight upturn at the ends.

“No worries, Brant,” MJ blanks, walking ahead. “I’m pretty good at confidentiality.”

* * *

Peter wonders if bringing the Spider-Man suit in his check-in luggage on an economy flight was the best of ideas, but it turns out okay.

Karen greets him the night he steps out in Vienna, swinging for the thrill of it. Ned’s in his ears, asking him to make a pit stop at  _literally any local chocolate shop_  because his parents want a pack from every country he’s visiting.

Peter finds one after a quick search from Karen, and he picks up an extra box for…

Well.

If she doesn’t want it, at least he has some for himself.

* * *

(He knocks on the girls’ room when he gets back.

Sally opens it, tells him the others are at the hotel lobby doing bad lip readings.

He says, “Can you give this to MJ?”

She says, “Aw, hell, Pete—that’s borderline Jane Austen,” and takes it.)

* * *

(She hands it over secretly when MJ steps in.

Sally’s got the  _most_  annoying smirk on her face and it hinders MJ from eating them right then and there despite present company.)

* * *

(She sits diagonally across and on the other side of the aisle to Peter on the train to Prague.

If she only takes bites of the sweets when she knows he’s looking, no one says a word.)

* * *

Prague is unnecessarily beautiful.

MJ complains offhandedly to Ned about not having _enough pages on her sketchbook for this_ as they pass another interesting statue.

Betty moves up, passing her a blank notebook. “I’ve got lots.”

“I already approved, but now moreso,” MJ says with a blank stare, swinging her bag around to tuck away the notebook.

Ned’s cheeks puff up, and he smiles, mouth opening to silent, unfinished sentences.

“My cue.” MJ pats his shoulder and starts walking ahead, catching up to Sally and Abe.

* * *

Prague is unnecessarily beautiful.

Peter has his hands in his pockets, listening to their guide cover some history. Something’s off, but he doesn’t know  _what_ , and it’s messing with the nice weather and the leisurely stroll.

They pass an alley, and he feels…

A tug?

A  _pull_?

A question in his senses that makes him pause, makes Harrington gently pat his shoulder to have him keep moving.

No one else seems to notice. There’s chatter but he’s not paying attention anymore, the sirens in his head getting louder and louder and—

Betty, beside him, chortles at something, then pulls out a notebook and walks ahead. She hands it to MJ, says she  _has lots_.

They turn a corner ten blocks later and spot the skeleton of a fair being set up.

The sirens die down, and he breathes again.

Relaxes.

He tells himself he’ll check the alley out later, in the cover of darkness.

“What’s the occasion?” Harrington asks the tour guide, but Peter doesn’t catch the answer.

He  _does_  catch MJ looking at him.

That  _Stare Into Your Soul_  thing she does.

Her brows crease, presumably because he hasn’t like, smiled back or anything.

Nothing friendly.

Nothing normal.

She juts her chin out at him, frowning.

_You okay?_

_Gulp_ , as he remembers the mechanics to forming a smile.

(He’s probably nodding way too fast and way too much.)

She squints at him.

He stops breathing.

Charles passes their line of sight and points at the base of the Ferris wheel. Everyone turns to look, and when Peter tries to find MJ’s eyes again, she’s gone and watching with the rest of them.

* * *

(The sirens come back on their way to lunch, and this time?

They stay.)

* * *

“I got a date!” Ned fist pumps, jumping onto his bed. “ _HELL YES!_ ”

“Dude, you could’ve gotten a date, like, last year,” Peter says, laughing.

“Long game, Peter-dude,” Ned says, dancing.

“Good job, man,” Peter says, standing to give him a high-five. “Where you guys goin’?”

“Dude, the whole team is hitting the fair,” Ned frowns, quirking a brow at him. “You know? We were talking about it at lunch?”

“Oh.” He was not paying attention. “Yeah, no, yeah, I remember.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I do!”

“So you remember MJ getting asked out by the cashier at the bakery?”

 _Psh_. “She—yeah,  _duh_ , sure I do.”

Ned squints. “We had Czech food at that place Harrington could surprisingly pronounce and MJ was staring at you the whole time.”

“Uhhhh.”  _Blink._  “She was?”

“What’s going on, dude?” Ned says, hopping down to sit. “You’ve been out of it since the tour.”

 _Sigh_ , as Peter slumps. “Something was off. We passed an alley on the way to the fair and I could… _sense_  something. I don’t know what.”

“So call Stark,” Ned says, laying down. “You’re on  _vacation_ , man. Light criminal activity only, your words. And, like, New York doesn’t mind you, but if you wreck a building  _here_ we’re probably gonna get kicked out of the country.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Peter pouts, “Belgium likes me, too.”

“We’re not in Belgium.”

 _Tsk_.

Ned pats his friend’s shoulder. “So. Dinner, and then we hit the fair. Deal?”

Peter raises a hand for their handshake, sighing heavily. “Deal.”

* * *

(He 100% does not tell Ned that the suit is under his clothes.

Just in case.)

* * *

Dinner is perfectly fine and normal and probably disruptive to other tourists. They eat light—just enough to not serenade each other with growling stomachs by the time they get to the festivities.

The only caveat to the merriment, which no one warns neither MJ nor Peter, is that the team is buzzing with excitement for fair food and fair games and fair  _rides_ , and everyone’s  _talking_  to everyone else about stuff they’re planning on doing together.

As a whole.

In fours.

In threes.

In  _twos_.

They all chat in the open-aired terrace, one by one or two by two leaving to change or get their stuff from their rooms.

It dwindles down to Ned, Peter, and MJ.

The three musketeers.

At it again.

Except:

Ned leaves them by the terrace, because he’s a terrible person, and  _all for one_  apparently means  _nothing_  to him.

(That’s not true, but right now it’s what they’re both thinking.)

“Nice night,” Peter says after a while.

MJ nods. “Yep.”

They’re looking out onto the street, hands on the stone railing. How Midtown managed to get this trip deal is beyond MJ’s pay grade, but she suspects having Tony Stark connected to one of the students helps.

The sun’s setting.

The sun’s setting, and they’re on a terrace.

In Prague.

Peter hums something.

Pretends he doesn’t want to lean closer her way.

Maybe hold her hand.

Maybe tell her about this massive hole in his chest from not being able to talk to her.

MJ thinks.

And thinks.

And thinks.

And—

You know what?

Screw it.

She’s gonna enjoy this trip.

She  _may_  be getting influenced by the general romantic atmosphere that is old buildings and muggy weather, but whatever.

Maybe biting the bullet will help.

Maybe giving a little trust will get her some back.

“We should hit the Ferris wheel tonight,” MJ says casually.

“But…you hate heights,” Peter monotones.

Ah. Yes. Correct.

“Carousel?” she tries again, turning and leaning her back on the rail. “They might have those two-seaters.”

Peter’s brows go up.

Like,  _way_  up.

“Like a…” he gulps, “…like a date?”

She clears her throat.

Repeatedly.

Shifts a little, puts her hands on the rail and tries to be cool.

“Umm…yeah. Like a date.”

“Are…I mean, like, are you sure?”

MJ puckers her lips, puffing up her cheeks. “I—yeah.”

“You don’t—you don’t have to. To ask me, I mean. I’m okay.”

“Okay,” she says, biting the inside of her cheek, “but I’m not.”

Peter stares at her, head tilted in inquiry.

“I’m not okay. With what—with turning you down. Um. Before.”

“You’re? You’re  _not_?”

“You can say no, I get it, I messed up—”

“So, two-seaters, huh?” Peter grins, catching her attention.

“Shut up,” MJ says, fighting back a smile. She leans on him, shoving him slightly to the side. “I’ll bring the contraband.”

“You can call them snacks, MJ.”

“Can I?” she asks, walking off.

* * *

 _Call ‘em whatever you want_ , he wants to say.

It would, likely, come out a little breathless, a little swoony, a little starstruck.

A little too honest in the web of lies he’s spun for himself.

(Pun  _most def_ intended.)

* * *

They all make it in one piece to the fair (albeit in staggered groups), which Peter is grateful for, except the sirens in his head are  _worse_ , and he  _actually saw something_ , and he says to Ned:

“Hey, I’ll just go get, um, some drinks—from the stall at the entrance.”

“‘Kay, dude,” Ned says, distracted in his search for Betty. “I’ll be on the Ferris wheel, probably.”

Peter grins. “Sounds good, man.”

* * *

(MJ waits for him in the middle of a milling crowd and something in her gut  _twists_.

There is an image in her mind of a dazed boy with furrowed brows, looking behind him, looking ahead, looking everywhere.

Watching and waiting for something she can’t see.

Something she can’t  _sense_.)

* * *

Being a chronic liar is probably the reason Peter gets stuck in Mysterio’s—wow,  _whattaname_ —building, confused beyond belief at the over-stimulating sights and sounds.

Crawling blind out a window as the gas reaches a dangerous level.

Relying on Karen for directions and if he has to duck, or tuck, or roll, because he’s still very confused about why Ben’s here, on this roof.

Why May’s on the windowsill at the building over.

Why Tony’s peddling wares on the street below.

And  _holy crap_ , why is it so cold?

Who made it this cold?

Peter wishes Ned were in his ear.

Wishes he told him that the sirens were too loud to ignore.

Karen says something about  _northbound_  and  _ten blocks_  right around the time Peter’s brain is clearing up.

And he remembers where he is.

And he remembers where the  _fair_  is.

* * *

Ned pushes MJ and Betty out of the fair grounds, body blocking small chunks of debris as they run.

Flash yells something, and when they turn around he’s got a couple of small kids clinging to him as he runs out to meet them.

“I thought this wasn’t supposed to be like New York?” he coughs, a black streak of soot on his face.

“False advertising,” MJ quips mid-cough, scanning the crowd with clear concern.  _Curse_. “Where are the others?”

“Harrington went out the back way with the rest of the team,” Flash says, sitting down. The kids hug him saying something in Czech. Thanking him, probably. He gives them high-fives.

“Good job, hero,” MJ says, offering him an open hand.

He claps it and looks up to the sky. “Wherever you are, Spidey, thanks for bein’ a good role model.”

* * *

(The gut twisting is  _back_ and it is  _worse_ and MJ feels  _sick_ , because this isn’t the States.

They’re an ocean away from the Avengers.

Peter’s on his own.)

* * *

Abe texts:  _harrington said to meet at the hotel_

Cindy adds:  _Is Peter with you guys?_

MJ sends herself a text, the ding making Ned jump from his spot by a lamppost.

 _he says he’s already walking back_ , she texts the group, glancing at Ned as they start the trek back.

“Good to know you’re talking again,” Betty says to her, arm looped with Ned’s.

“Yup,” MJ blanks, wiping off soot from her jacket. She shares a brief, pointed  _look_  with Ned.

He gulps.

She adds: “Same.”

* * *

Charles is the one that sends it to the group chat.

Two words that make everything both worse and infinitely better.

_SPIDER-MAN’S HERE??_

* * *

Twitter says Fishbowl Guy threw some sort of bomb at New York’s favorite vigilante.

Twitter also says that Spider-Man manages to win by sheer dumb luck, as has been his calling card for the last couple of years.

Fishbowl Guy is now webbed to the floor in front of the Prague Castle, according to user @czechitout, as of 8:14 PM, local time, and local authorities are on-scene.

* * *

They reach the hotel half an hour later, having to deal with a crowd of both spectators and people fleeing the fair.

Harrington’s group gets there ten minutes later, but by then Ned’s excused himself with a jumpy lie about Peter needing _some help upstairs_ — _he says someone hit him on the way out._

“Tough,” Flash says, but the adrenaline’s gone and he’s a little uneven now, too.

Betty understands, thankfully, and Ned promises to check up on her later.

“I should go, too,” MJ says uneasily, arms crossed and dress singed.

“We’ll tell Harrington,” Betty says consolingly. “Go.”

A nod, a step, a breath.

Off to the elevators and up to the eighth floor.

* * *

(If Flash winks at MJ before she leaves, she opts not to decimate him verbally.)

* * *

“What did you  _do_?” Ned gawks, staring at Peter’s wound.

Gash.

Big, giant, bleeding patch on his torso, seen through the now lovely hole in his suit.

“Saved…people… _ow_ ,” Peter says, flopping to the floor.

At least he lands on his back—Ned manages to pick him up by the shoulders, helps him reach his bed by the window before he can stain the carpet.

“MJ was worried.”

“MJ’s…going to kill…me.”

It’s all iron and burnt things. Ned almost gags. “You need to  _shower_  before she kills you.”

 _Groan_ , as Peter stands, pressing the button to release the suit. It falls to the floor without much of a fight, and Ned gets ready to help him wal—

_KNOCKKNOCKNOCKKNOCK!_

_Flop_ , as Ned drops his  _very injured_  best friend onto the floor beside the bed, runs to the door and peeks outside.

He  _immediately_  tries to close it, but MJ’s boot is both big and sturdy, so that’s another idea down the drain.

“Let me in, Ned,” she says, low yet somehow thundering.

“MJ!” Ned squeaks, trying to close the door again. “Sorry, Peter’s  _uh_ , changing—”

MJ  _shoves_  the door open, adrenaline kicking in. “Oh, I know,” she hisses, stomping past Ned, visibly ticked off.

Peter scrambles, jumping into his bed and pulling up the comforter and—

“You’re an  _idiot_ ,” MJ deadpans, stopping at the foot of his bed.

“Privacy, MJ,” Peter tries to joke, smile faltering. “It’s this…thing we both…like?”

“Shut up and show me,” she counters, dead serious.

“Don’t know what you’re…talking about.”

A mistake, really, to mess with her when he’s bleeding under a white comforter, wincing after every few words.

Not the best of plans.

Ned, somewhere in the back, locks the door and makes his way back, pacing and trying to look over.

MJ rolls her eyes, huffs, and digs into her bag, pulling out—

“Bandages?” Ned says, scrunching up his face. “You brought bandages?”

MJ raises her head briefly, turning to him. “Do  _you_  want him to have a  _suspiciously large_  pool of blood on his sheets and have to explain it to international officials tomorrow?”

“Bandages are good and so are you,” Ned nods, helping her unpack.

“You know,” Peter groans, pulling off the comforter and tossing it to the floor.

“Is it—”  _Grunt._ “—surprising?” MJ says, finishing the haul and laying the supplies in rushed piles on the foot of his bed.

“No.”

“Good.”

The sheets are stained, unsurprisingly, but it’s less than what she’d thought, and it’s workable.

Like, might cost  _her_ , if she goes with her planned excuse, but she thinks she can get Betty to trade rooms with the boys for the night.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

“How are we gonna wash these off?” Ned says once MJ’s moved to inspecting Peter’s gash.

“We’re not,” she replies, dousing the wound with antiseptics.

Could she have dabbed it instead?  _Absolutely_.

Is she a little salty and thought this was at least a proactive way to get that across?  _You betcha_.

Peter hisses, seethes, frowns.

Frowns, and stays that way, looking at her with concern. “Why aren’t we wash— _owowow_ —washing the sh— _ssssthh_ —sheets, MJ?”

“‘Cause we’re trading rooms,” she replies, hand out to Ned. “The roll.”

Ned passes it. “We are?”

“Yup.”

_Wrap, wrappy-wrap._

“I was about to go into the shower,” Peter says, wincing as she and Ned lift him slightly to pass the gauze.

“But you didn’t,” MJ says, exhaling heavily as she finishes the wrap. “So we wing it.”

“Are you sure we can’t just say he got a paper cut?” Ned asks gingerly, returning the extra supplies into her backpack. He glances at the sheets and comforter. “Like, a  _big_  paper cut?”

“In the middle of the bed?” she asks, raising a brow. “Between sheets?”  _Snort_. “Believe me, a period is  _way_  more believable.”

“Yeah, but the room-switching…”

“It’s fine, I’ll deal with Harrington.”

“And Betty?”

“I mean,” MJ says, clicking her tongue, “I’m banking on her liking the view in your room more.”

“Your winging needs some extra wing,” Peter groans, the heels of his palms digging into his brow ridges.

“You got any ideas, genius?”

He lifts one hand to point at Ned. “Paper cut.”

 _Squint._  “…I hate you.”

He gestures to his wrapped chest, raising his brows in a silent question.

“Not enough to watch you die.”

“Uh-huh,” Ned scoffs, moving to pack his things.

“It’s a school trip,” MJ monotones. “I can’t do that to Harrington.”

“I think you like me,” Peter says, scrunching up his face in amusement.

She stands, tugging his duffel bag from the side of the room and tossing his stuff in haphazardly. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Wasn’t a no.”

 _Shrug._ “Wasn’t a no.”

 _Blink._ “You  _like_ me?” Peter says with wide eyes, sitting up quickly.

“Dude, don’t move so much,” Ned warns, making a circle movement with his hand. “That’s gonna not clot.”

“But—”

“Really not the time,” MJ says, back turned to them both and hair falling to block her face.

“I could die tomorrow, y’know,” Peter says, jaw hanging in shock as he tries to register her words.

She snaps to face him, eyes with a weak shine and dangerous crease. “Do  _not_  joke about that, Pete.”

Oops. “Sorry.”

“Tomorrow,” she adds, turning away and semi-angrily zipping up his duffel bag. “You can joke about it tomorrow.”

“MJ—”

“I’m fine.”

“Good captain, terrible liar,” Ned says with a  _point_.

“Take that back, I lie better than Peter.”

“ _Everyone_  lies better than Peter.”

“Says the guy who almost blew my cover thirty times in a week,” Peter squints.

Ned puts a hand over his heart. “I have grown as a person and as a credible liar.”

“Debatable,” MJ mutters, letting the bag drop to the floor. “Alright. You’re good to go.”

“I still don’t get why we can’t just wash it,” Peter whines.

“We can wash it if you can think of a way to dry it, but I’ve used the hairdryer they have and it  _suck_ —”

“I can dry it.”

 _Blink_. “What?”

“I can dry it,” Peter repeats with a casual shrug. “Mr. Stark put a feature in my suit for drying the material. We just gotta reprogram it a lil’ bit, but it should work.”

“Guess you  _are_  good for something,” MJ says blandly, giving him a once over. “You don’t need me here, then. So. Peace.”

“Wait!” Peter says  _entirely_  too loud after she takes one step for the door.

Up goes one of her brows, finely curved and hella confused.

“Um,” Peter gulps, looking to Ned for help. “You probably have questions? About…the thing.”

“I’ve been overhearing your conversations for three years, I think I’m good.”

“Oh. Um. Then, uh—no questions? Really?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Oh. Okay. Uh—”

“I think  _he’s_  the one with questions,” Ned snorts, making for the door. “You know, feelings and stuff.”

MJ gulps quietly, chewing the inside of her cheek to keep from saying something stupid like—

“I’ll stay if you want me to.”

(She has very bad impulses sometimes and it’s always worse when she’s stressed.)

Ned checks his watch. “You guys have…forty-six minutes before lights out. I’ll be back in forty.”

“Okay,” Peter says, blank and automatic.

Ned shakes his head at them both and makes a show of closing the door slowly, sharing—encouraging!—looks with each of them.

 _Click_.

Silence engulfs them.

The room is too big to be this quiet—to have only the muddled clicking and popping sounds of joints clenching and stretching fill the air.

It’s Regionals all over again, but they’re alone, and Peter’s still bleeding a bit, and MJ’s jacket is stained, and—

“I‘m sorry,” they say at the same time, hers quiet, his strained.

“For?” MJ asks, brows raising.

“I—I stood you up,” Peter says, wincing at his words.

“Oh,” she says, blinking, “That’s it?”

“Uh.” Peter glances away and back again. “Yes?”

“Forgiven,” MJ says, chewing the inside of her cheek. “If, like, you’ll take my apology. For being mad at you.”

“About the Spider-Man thing?”

“About the Spider-Man thing.”

“‘S okay,” Peter shrugs. “May was worse.”

MJ laughs lightly, her eyes crinkling with her smile. “Bet.”

He looks up.

Fights back a smile.

Fails.

“You look pretty.”

“Thanks. You look alive.”

“Thanks.”

“Can…can you sit with me?”

“What, you want to transfer blood? This isn’t how you transfer blood, Peter.”

“ _MJ_ ,” he whines, and  _frick_ , she has it bad.

She has it  _very_  bad, because his hair is mussed and he looks exhausted and he’s got a  _huge-ass wound_  on him, but he’s still smiling.

At her.

All dopey and unsure and deliriously happy.

She moves over, puts her jacket over the blood—just in case—and sits on it. Clasps her hands in her lap and sits there, on the edge of the bed, right where he’s got an arm out.

“Happy?” she asks.

He nods.

A comfortable silence.

Some peace.

Easy breathing.

“Can you hold my hand?” he asks after what seems like both minutes and hours.

MJ thinks,  _Hell, humor him_ , and holds his hand.

It has absolutely nothing to do with her wanting to hold his hand, or wanting to kiss his face, or wanting to figure out how to make him heal faster.

Peter hums, fingers lacing through hers. His eyes close, the smile on his face widening.

“…You’re really not over me liking you, huh?”

“Nope,” he says, popping the ‘P’.

“You realize—I asked you out.”

“Don’t ruin the moment, MJ.”

She squeezes his hand. “Impossible. You’re the moment-ruiner. You ruined the aesthetic of a fair date. On vacation. In Europe. That’s peak moment-ruining, Pete.”

He opens an eye, frowning. “I thought we were cool.”

“Oh, we’re cool.”

“Then why—”

“You’re fun,” MJ says, adjusting her seat so she’s facing him. “Predictable.”

Peter scoffs, full offense taken. “Hey, I surprise teachers  _every year_.”

“Academic achievements as a counterargument? Predictable.”

“And  _May_ , I surprise  _May_ —”

“Closest relative. Next.”

“Well, there’s—” Peter frowns, turning to the other wall. Looking up at the ceiling.

For all intents and purposes, not paying attention to what she’s doing.

“Predictable,” MJ repeats, speaking somewhere near his ear.

Very near.

Inches near.

He looks over.

She kisses him.

* * *

(Apparently that was minute, like, thirty-nine, because Ned  _barges in_  in the following seconds.)

* * *

 (“ _Moment-ruiner_ ,” Peter frowns at him when MJ's gone back to her room.

Ned just shrugs, unperturbed.

Mumbles, “Like you won't kiss her first thing tomorrow,” as he goes to shower.)

* * *

(To be fair, he's right.)

* * *

 

_**One Week Later** _

 

“I don’t know why I agreed to this,” MJ mutters, head in her hands as the passenger car sways in the wind.

“Liz said it’s a rite of passage,” Betty reminds her, leaning into Ned’s side.

“ _I’m scared of heights, Betty_ ,” MJ groans, eyes shut tightly.

“You wanted to see if it was less scary if you were making out, I think,” Ned says, finger tapping on his chin.

“I still think it might work,” Peter says, rubbing MJ’s back.

She flips him off.

“I’m just saying.”

She shoves at him blindly, middle finger returning to a white-knuckled fist.

Peter mimes pain, and Betty and Ned laugh.

It  _shakes_ the _tub_.

MJ gulps. “I’m going to die here. In London. Colonization wins again.”

Peter giggles, hugging her from behind and kissing her cheek. “Just—”

“I am  _not_  kissing you. I am  _never_  kissing you. You went with this plan. This was a  _bad_  plan. I hate this, and I hate you.”

“Lie,” Betty laughs, scrunching up her face. “Big-ass lie, MJ.”

(MJ mumbles something dangerously close to  _So we’re in love, so what?_ but keeps her head down.)

Peter kisses her cheek again. Moves, so she’s leaning on his chest, listening to his heartbeat instead of feeling the pod sway.

The wind doesn’t pick back up.

Everything stills.

“…Fine, let’s do this,” MJ groans, eyes closed as she taps her lips with a finger.

“This really shouldn’t be as funny as it is,” Ned snorts, recording.

Betty pulls out her phone, types,  _they’re trying it_ , and hits send to the group chat.

Peter grins at the camera, tugs his girlfriend closer, and kisses her gently.

…Until the Eye moves again.

MJ pulls away, ducks her head and lets out an annoyed huff into Peter’s chest. “Nope. Nopenopenope. I quit—I never quit, but I quit. You can put that on my gravestone. I’m approving it.”

Ned howls with laughter, shaking the car even more as it lowers back to the ground at an agonizing pace.

Peter holds her again, kissing her forehead and laughing lightly while whispering that it’s  _gonna be okay, don’t worry, I’m right here_.

“You should swing her down,” Betty laughs, head on Ned’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Peter says, distracted, “I shou—wait.”  _Squint_.

MJ sits up, too, daring to peek at her roommate.

Ned raises his hands in defense, shaking his head vigorously.

Betty shrugs. “Simple math.”

“She can stay,” MJ quips before returning to her hiding place.  

“I’m screwed,” Peter says, tongue in his cheek.

“This is gonna be fun,” Ned grins, keeping his phone.

Betty kisses him, pats his cheek when she pulls away. “Already is.”

**Author's Note:**

> the real joke here is im pretty sure the pods at the eye don't sway because of how they're built, but I did it for the joke
> 
> (in vienna all the girls had one room and the guys were split into two rooms, hence why sally's there in that scene and not in prague)
> 
> comments n kudos appreciated as always!!
> 
> love you guys <3 you can [hit me up on doofwrites on tumblr for DVD commentary on scenes I wrote](https://doofwrites.tumblr.com/post/178469442608), but more importantly to just say hey! cause I love chatting with all of you!!
> 
> God bless fam :)


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